


The One With the World War

by apathetiic



Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Chandler internalizes his feelings, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Ross is conveniently missing, Short Chapters, as per usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetiic/pseuds/apathetiic
Summary: Phoebe and Monica are working for the war effort. Rachel unknowingly dates a five star general. Ross is missing overseas. Chandler and Joey fall in love (somehow) at boot camp.ORBased on that one tumblr post called 1918 Friends Episode, but put into the 40sORI wanted to write a 1940s Chanoey epic and nothing can stop me.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

>   **Order to Report for Induction**
> 
> **From the Office of The President of the United States**
> 
> **CHANDLER BING, AGED 25**
> 
> **MARCH 5TH, 1943**
> 
> **You are hereby ordered to report for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States of America - 4TH INFANTRY DIVISION - and to report at 201 VARICK #102, FLOOR 3, ASSEMBLY ROOM. on MAY 12th at 8:00am for further instruction and information.**

 

Chandler read the letter, dumbfounded. His eyes were glued to the sharply stamped emblem of the United States Army Services in the top right hand corner of the letter. His draft card was sitting in the top drawer of his desk, untouched. He knew it was possible that it could happen, the army was taking every able bodied man on Manhattan and beyond. He just never thought it would be him.

Even the medical examiner, when he had first gotten the draft card, told him he had nothing to worry about. He mentioned how the army was looking for strong, clean cut boys. Chandler was clean cut, but far from strong. He had protested, saying that he was just fine, fine, fine, he could handle whatever the Germans decided to throw at them next. He flinched when the medical examiner threw his pencil at him. 

"What's in your hands there, Chandler?" asked Monica from the stove top. It was early in the morning, Chandler had woken up and shambled across the hall to Monica and Rachel's place. The sun was rising over the city, coloring the lavender walls of the apartment in a pinkish hue. The land lady didn't like the fact that he was always over at their apartment, but Monica was the better cook. On his way over, roused by the promise of coffee, eggs and sausage links Chandler stumbled over a small stack of papers at his door step.

"Its my conscription." He said, weakly holding up the letter for Monica to see. 

"Oh my God..." She said, setting down the plate of eggs on the table next to Rachel and Phoebe. They both immediately looked much more grave. Ross was drafted a year ago, placed in the infantry in the Philippines. They hadn't heard anything from him since. Just a bleak missing in action letter. Rachel had taken a job at a military office downtown, patching phone calls through, hoping that she would hear something about him. They had just started going steady when he left for boot camp. 

Monica came to his side, placing her hands on his arms, steadying him. 

"What are you going to do?" She asked softly. Chandler noticed a slight twitch in her lip. Rachel had stopped eating her food, her fork making aimless circles on her plate as she stared blankly at the floor. Chandler didn't have to take a second glance at her to know that she was thinking about Ross. 

"It's not like I can't go." He said as he looked at his name in type. He wanted desperately to stay. He had a fine job, working in advertisement for that radio factory, Phoebe, Rachel and Monica were all making good money through the war effort. Him and Monica had even gone on a few dates, walking through central park, getting a cup of coffee as they walked to work together. 

 "I can't imagine not being here, with you." He said as he shifted Monica's arms and began to hug her. He planted a kiss on her head, taking in the scent of the hair product she used to set her curls. "In New York. With Rachel, with Phoebe." He held on to her tighter.  

"You shouldn't have to go." Rachel said bitterly from the table. She stood, straightening her skirt. "Millions of our boys are being killed over there," She said as she came closer. "I don't want you to end up, on the front lines, or missing an arm when you come back, or not to come back at all." Rachel came closer to Chandler and Monica. Chandler saw tears at the corners of her eyes. He got the feeling they were for Ross as well as him. 

Phoebe, ever the pacifist, looked torn at the sight of her friends arguing.  "Just burn your draft card. I heard some union boys are doing it." 

"I'm not part of a union." Chandler said as he let go of Monica. "And I'm not burning it. It's... It's illegal, first of all. Besides, the recruiters will find me somehow." 

Monica rubbed her arms, and brought her unpolished nails to her mouth. Chandler had bought her a bottle of cherry red nail polish before it was rationed, but she had recently ran out. She had begun to bite her nails again. 

"How much time until...?" Rachel asked.

"A week." He answered. 

"So you're going." Monica said, meeting his eyes. Chandler felt an enormous weight of guilt on his shoulders. He couldn't imagine leaving the three of them alone. Especially Monica. Ever since Ross had disappeared, he felt as if he was keeping them together. He pitched in a little money here and there so they could get by on the rations, he wandered over to their apartment to listen to the radio, he messed with the wires, hoping to catch a sliver of German or Japanese waves. He comforted Rachel when he came home and heard her crying, he listened to Phoebe's complaints about the war, he had been the one to open the letter that declared Ross as MIA. He imagined that they would fall apart without him. Or that he would fall apart without them. 

"I have to." Chandler said, folding the letter and placing it in his pocket. He noticed there was a slight tremor in his hand. "But enough about that. Lets just have breakfast... like normal." 

"Well there isn't going to be much of normal left. Lets." Phoebe said as she made Chandler a plate of eggs. 

Rachel sat back down, and poured a glass of orange juice for him. Monica pulled out Chandler's chair for him, and sat next down to him. Phoebe sat his plate in front of him.

"I'm just going to war. I'm not dying. What's next, is Mon going to spoon feed me?" He said, trying to inject some humor into the situation. Phoebe let out an exaggerated laugh. Monica smiled weakly as Rachel dabbed the corner of her eye with a napkin. 

He held Monica's hand under the table through breakfast, Phoebe and Rachel were silent throughout the meal, their eyes darting between him and Monica between bites of their breakfast. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Unable to sleep after receiving the letter, Chandler had stayed up until nearly midnight. He busied himself with other things, reading, finishing up a few things from work. He even organized his silverware drawer in an attempt to keep himself busy. But there was an underlying sense of anxiety. He thought about what Rachel had said. He passed a Veteran's hospital on the bus ride to work each morning. The bus stopped right in front of the place, through the windows tired looking doctors and nurses shambled on, and if you looked close enough you could see men, crowded around a radio set, sitting at a table playing cards. He had seen more than a few of them with missing limbs.

And then there was Ross. He and the girls had lost a friend. He didn't want them to lose another. He was terrified. Terrified of war and what it would have in store for him. He didn't imagine himself dying on the battlefield in a blaze of glory. That wasn't him. He was petrified at the thought of being on the front lines, staring down the barrels of the enemy's guns.

To calm his nerves he smoked. A whole pack. Maybe two. He sat by the window, gazing out in to the empty street, watching the smoke from the end of the cigarette drift out of the window and into the air.

It was nearly midnight when he heard a knock on his door. He put the cigarette out on the ash tray balancing on the windowsill and went to answer it.

Monica stood in the hallway, dressed in what looked like to be a very cold slip. Chandler's face grew red, he'd only ever seen her in an apron, skirt or a navy blue factory jumpsuit with her hair neatly curled and pinned back. Here, she looked much more disheveled. Her hair had been let out of her curls, and it brushed against her collar bones. She looked very pretty, he thought in that blue silk slip. Her cheeks were red, as well as her eyes. Thin lines of mascara ran down her cheeks. She had been crying. He couldn't remember the last time he saw Monica cry.

"Mon..." He began, before she could say anything Monica walked in to his arms. Chandler felt her shiver. Their hands intertwined, her finger tips were ice cold. "You're freezing," He said, pressing her hand in between his, trying to get some heat back into her. Monica's bottom lip quivered, he could tell that she was trying to keep herself from crying in front of him.

He brought her fingertips to his lips, and kissed them softly.

"You can't leave us- me. You just can't." She said as she pressed her cheek to his chest.

"I don't want to." He said as he laced their fingers together again. He rested his chin on the top of her head, staring at the door of his apartment. "But I have to- I hate it. I'd do anything to just stay here."

Monica shifted against his chest.

"Just-- Let's not talk about it until we have to say goodbye." She said in to the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah." He said pulling her closer.

They stood there for a moment, in the dark of the apartment. The only light illuminating the space was coming from a street lamp outside of the building. Chandler felt Monica shiver against him.

"Mon, you're freezing, at least let me get you some coffee or something." He mumbled.

"No-- You don’t know how to make it withouht my hell anyway. " She said as she pulled away. She rubbed her eyes with her palms and tried to smile. "I’m fine, I'll just head back."

Chandler reached out to lightly grasp her wrist, he met her eyes. "Why-- Why don't you stay." He took a step towards her. "Just for an hour."

Monica looked at his hand. "Alright." She whispered.

Chandler led her into the apartment, past the kitchen and the living room. He pushed the door to his bedroom open and let her walk in.

His bedroom was furnished conservatively. An armoire in one corner with a lamp on top, his bed in the other. There were only a few pictures on the walls. One of him and Ross from college, dressed in the school's uniform. He still got a kick out of the boater hats that they wore in the photo. Chandler had his arm wrapped around Ross' shoulders, who was making an exaggerated face for the photo. The picture was dated 1937. Another of his parents, grainy in quality, before their divorce in 1927. They looked unhappy even before they had split up. He hadn't spoken to either since. There was one more photo on the wall. Of Monica. Her hair was curled, her lips done and her cheeks rosy. She looked stunning, even in black and white.

"You're still dressed from work." Monica said, not spending time looking at the contents of the room. Her eyes hadn't left him.

"Oh-- I just didn't change." He smoothed down his wrinkled dress shirt with one hand and tucked his other into his trouser pocket.

"Here," She said taking a step closer to him. Her fingers went to his tie to undo it. Chandler felt her breath against his neck and suddenly, his heart leapt into his throat. The tie slipped from his neck and fell to the floor. Monica then began to undo the buttons on his dress shirt, steadily, and much too slow for Chandler.

He pushed her hands away with his own, then moved them to cup her face. He could feel her dark hair brushing up against the back of his hand, he could smell the remnants of perfume on her skin and he could see the streaks of mascara on her cheeks. It made his heart ache, it was almost too much for him to handle. He felt some tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, then he kissed her.

Monica's lips were soft, and tasted like brown sugar. She leaned into him, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin. It only made his heart ache more when her hands shifted upwards to cup his.

They shuffled their way over to the edge of his bed, stealing kisses as best they could. They sat and when their lips parted they stayed there in the dark of the room for a moment, until Chandler pressed a kiss near her jaw.

"C'mon, let's go to bed." He said into her skin. He pushed back the quilt of the bed for her, and Monica slid under the covers without a word. Chandler quickly undressed, shrugging his shirt off of his shoulders, and kicking his trousers off. He settled into bed next to Monica.

They lay there in the dark for a while, exchanging kisses, some passionate, some chaste, and others desperate and sad. Chandler felt like they were making up for lost time. Eventually, they ended up in each other's arms. Chandler with one arm wrapped around her shoulders, another on her hip, Monica with her head resting comfortably on his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

"I promise, I'll marry you when I come back home." If he came back home.

"Promise me you'll make it home first." Monica said, pressing a light kiss to his collar bone.

"Of course, Mon, how else would I marry you?" He said with a soft laugh that died on his lips.

He felt Monica smile against his chest.

"Goodnight," She mumbled into his skin.

"Night." He said, stealing a glance at her. Monica's breath became steady, and her body slack as she drifted off to sleep. Chandler soon followed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--author's note--
> 
> just as a content warning this chapter utilizes outdated language that may be considered offensive to describe LGBT individuals

The week leading up to Chandler's departure for boot camp was a blur. He quit his job, his boss had only offered a firm pat on the shoulder as condolences. He didn’t mind leaving the radio factory. Half of his coworkers called him Charlie, and the other half didn’t know his name. Besides, he wasn’t never on their good side. Somehow, he had managed to insult FDR in one of his low moments. It was the secretaries and their damn small talk that tripped him up the most.

That left him home alone often while the girls were at work. He had spent the time packing, chain smoking and reminiscing to keep himself from falling in to a depression, (or so he told himself) it offered him some comfort. Chandler had a knack for being melancholy, and he would exercise his right to be until they beat it out of him at boot camp. The only thing good about the week was Monica, Monica in the morning, waking up next to him, New York sunshine dancing through her curls, Monica in his room in the evening, the soft skin of her neck just inches away from his lips. She felt like home and Chandler wanted every last second with her to count. She made him feel like less of a dead man walking. 

While Monica and him grieved, Phoebe and Rachel tried to remain positive. It was nice the first day. Then Phoebe brought her guitar by the apartment one evening.

”Guys— Guys, listen, I went down to that record shop, just up the street, the owner, super handsome, decided to teach me some new chords.” 

“Phoebes, can’t you see we’re trying to listen to the radio,” Chandler said from the couch, newspaper in hand.

”Its not on.”

“Right.”

”But here— listen.” Phoebe strummed a sour chord.

”Wow, are you sure you aren’t from Harlem?”

”Ah, be quiet Bing.” She looked to her fingers, perched on the fretboard at odd angles. “Like you could do any better.” She mumbled to herself.

The next chord was a little bit sweeter, but still grating from Phoebe’s heavy handed stroke of the strings. 

“Well... Chandler is funny but he’s got no—“ Phoebe began,

”Dinner,” Monica called from the kitchen as she took a small pot of stew off the stove. Rachel was laying out spoons and bowls. It was the only thing Monica allowed her to do.

“Oh, Thank God.” Chandler said as he stood and pulled at the tie around his neck. 

Phoebe set the guitar down, looking quite wounded, and came to the table. Monica draped her apron over the back of her chair, and looked towards Chandler. Now that he noticed it, they were all looking at him.

“What?” He said as he began to serve himself some of the stew Monica had made.

”Its just your last night... here, honey.” Rachel

”Yeah.”

”You haven’t really said anything about it, going to war,.” Rachel said. 

Chandler almost laughed, and avoided Monica’s eyes. Rachel didn’t mean anything by it, he knew that. But she also wasn’t there when Monica had to drag him from the window he had planted himself in front of all night, and extinguish a butt of a cigarette on a full ash tray. He wasn’t suicidal or anything, just distant. He normally felt that way, and of course his feelings about going to war cropped up in jokes.

”Well I just feel marvelous, Rach, positively amazing, just peachy that I get to spend the next year on German lines, it’s a dream come true.” Chandler spooned the stew into his mouth.

”Fine.” Rachel raised her hands as she took the ladle from him.

”You sure you don’t want to do anything else tonight, honey?” Monica said from across the table, nudging Chandler’s foot with her own. “We could go downtown, maybe to a cinema.”

”I’m just fine staying in.”  

“Ugh you’re so mopey,” Phoebe sighed “You just want to stay in and sleep next to Monica and whine about how you won’t get any for the next year so she’ll put out.” Phoebe, blunt as always.

Chandler, almost— almost choked on his dinner. Things felt normal for an instant.

"Phoebes," Monica said, stabbing her spoon in to her soup and shooting her a glare. 

"What?" 

Chandler then smiled, knowing that he would miss this, even if it was cliche to think. 

"So anyone want to hear about my failed attempt at romance before Monica strangles Phoebe?" Rachel said in between bites of her soup.

"Do tell." Chandler replied. 

Monica stopped glaring at Phoebe to listen, Chandler knew she had been following this saga for weeks, and had tried to explain it to him. Something about a blonde boy who said hello to Rachel each morning. Chandler thought it was common courtesy, maybe a bit too friendly but granted she did sit right next to her builings elevator, so whoever passed her by tended to make conversation.

"Prince Charming?" Monica asked. "He was so dreamy, Rach, and c'mon... that bit with saying 'Good Morning' to you, you had him!" 

"I know!" Rachel said, pushing out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

"What, did he propose?" Chandler rolled his eyes as he played with a piece of carrot on his spoon. 

"No." She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. "I knew something was up when I got that new skirt, Mon. They don't allow it in the office because its not 'regulation length' but of course I got it through because I said they were rationing the fabric."

Now even Phoebe was interested, leaning forward in her chair as Rachel continued.

"So I decided to follow him into the filing room on the second floor and corner him, but he was already with someone." 

"Betty?" Phoebe piped up. "That bitch.”

"Worse, James." 

This was when Chandler became interested. 

"Wait, wait. James? Sure you don't mean Jane?" 

"No. James, without a doubt. He works on the operator's floor too."

"Oh, the fruity one." Monica said. 

"That's the one." 

Chandler was dumbfounded, completely stunned with the fact that two queers were in Rachels office. Rachel's military office. "You sure, Rach, I mean they just don't let people like them in." 

"Their tongues were down each others throats, yes, Chandler, I'm sure." Rachel said, picking up her spoon again. "Besides, they were never up front about it. I just caught them in the act." 

"Well aren't you going to say anything?" Phoebe questioned. 

"I'm just to chicken to rat on them, you know, and James he's just sweet and I couldn't do that to them, even if people don't like it." 

"Its just sort of unnatural, y'know?" Chandler said, moving his hands in front of his body like he always did when he was uncomfortable. They didn't know about his father of course, it was probably his greatest embarrassment, and it would only add to their teasing. He hadn't even told Ross about how his father, the fairy, ran off with their bus boy.

"I guess. I don't know that much about it." Rachel shrugs. "All I know is that they paid me fifty bucks to keep quiet about it and that Prince Charming is off the market."

"Fifty?" Monica said, arching an eyebrow. 

"Yeah, and I swear it will go to rent this month Mon after I go on a shopping trip." 

"How about that champagne, Mon? I need something to drink." Chandler said, running a hand through his hair, still not coming to terms with what would happen tomorrow morning. It was just a regular night in the apartment. Boot camp and the no mans land of Germany and France didn't exist. 

"Sounds good."

They finished off the whole bottle, more specifically Chandler finished off the bottle. He knew why. The combination of leaving for boot camp and the revelation of a homosexual love affair proved a good reason to drink. He left Monica and Rachel's apartment with the edges of his vision a little fuzzy, his speech a little slurred, and his inhibitions lowered. Monica was in close pursuit, their fingers knotted together.

He fell asleep with Monica's head against his chest and his thoughts millions of miles away from both New York and war.  


	4. Chapter 4

Chandler woke at about 0500 military time with a slight hangover. This was the least of his concerns.

Monica had returned home some time in the night, leaving him alone with what few items he had that hadn’t been packed away into storage, sold, or organized carefully in to boxes by Monica. That left him the three photos sitting on the wall of his bedroom to take to boot camp with him.

He took a moment, couldn’t take his parents, rather, he didn’t want to take the photo of his parents. Also, he looked quite chubby in his youth. He didn’t want to take the photo of Ross, because the other men at the boot camp would probably call him queer for keeping it. He did look kind of fruity in the stripes. Finally, that left the photo of Monica. No contest whatsoever.

He took the photo off of the wall, and out of its frame. It was dated 1940. It was only three years ago but since Ross had gone missing Monica's eyes looked more tired. He folded the picture carefully, and set it on his nightstand.

He dressed himself as best he could, he knew it would be whisked away as soon as he got to boot camp, and instead he would be clothed in bland fatigues for the foreseeable future. He tucked the photo in to his back pocket for safe keeping. He heard of this thing called a sweetheart grip, a little clear plastic cover for the handgrip of the gun. He thought the photo would look quite nice there.As far as he knew, Monica and Rachel were still sleeping, so he attempted to make himself a cup of coffee, which was a failure from the start. He didn’t have any grounds, or even a mug to put it in.

So Chandler did what he normally did when he had nothing to do, he smoked.

Monica knocked on the door at seven thirty am. She looked disheveled, and he thought she had just woken up herself. He didn’t bother asking for breakfast.

They all climbed into Phoebe’s cab at 7:45 am. He arrived at the Varick building at 7:55 sharp. He was processed again, examined, told how proud he should be to be fighting for his country. He stripped off his clothes and dressed in fatigues, and was given a canvas bag to put his clothes and personal item in. It all took about ten minutes for his old life in New York to fade away. He and the rest of the recruits were herded out of the building, and told that they had a few minutes to say goodbye to their family and whatnot.

The bus stop in front of the building was crowded by the young men, with their families or girlfriends standing close by. The air was tense, and melancholy. Rachel, Phoebe and Monica stood with him at the bus stop, all of them visibly had tears in their eyes but only Monica was trying to wipe them away.

"Mon," Chandler said, his heart aching. He hated to see her cry. It was ten times worse than whatever he would endure at boot camp or even overseas.

She gave a little choked sob and wrapped her arms around his chest. He dropped his bag to hug her back, pressing his face close to hers. He tried to take it all in as best as he could, how her black hair looked brownish in the warm morning light. The scent of the apartment on her, the roughness of her factory uniform as he patted her back, Rachel and Phoebe watching them over her shoulder. He had to kiss her before his heart couldn't take it anymore.

"Please, please come back." Monica said breathlessly

"I will, I swear I will."

"and-" She paused to wipe her eyes "Write when you can."

"Always."

"I love you."

Chandler smiled softly. "I love you too."

“Alright Cadets, ship out!” barked a drill soldier. It felt like a stab in his heart. He knew that once he stepped on the bus it wouldn’t be a far off thought that he would deal with tomorrow. He felt a little bit of panic spike in his chest, knowing that there was a very real possibility that he wouldn’t come home. Or maybe he would, just missing a leg. Would Monica still love him? Of course she would. He just didn’t want to be a burden on her. There he went worrying. But for a good reason.

Monica held to the cuff of his fatigues, letting her tears fall freely now. Chandler’s bottom lip trembled, and to keep himself from bursting out in tears, gave her one last kiss, and tried to make it as sweet as he could.

He couldn’t say anything to her afterwards, he just swallowed whatever feeling was on the tip of his tongue and marched to the bus.

The vehicle was military issue, so it was loud, and it smelled like gasoline. It reminded Chandler of the old school bus he rode in the mornings as a kid. As always, he was the odd one out. Just like he did in grade school, Chandler didn’t have a spot to sit. This, along with the crushing weight of what this bus was taking him to, made his chest constrict.

He walked to the back of the bus, praying, hoping that there would be one open seat without a man twice his size sitting in it. With his luck, there wouldn’t be. Chandler stood there, hopeless, overwhelmed. Hopelessly overwhelmed. Already. He was thirty seconds into his military career and he was already thinking of defecting and jumping out the back of the bus.

“Hey, pal, there’s a seat here.”

Chandler loosened the grip on his canvas bag, which he just realized he was clutching on to like a child.

“What?” He sputtered.

“Yeah, right here.”

“Oh, I-”

“I’m not holding a gun to your head, pal, and if you keep standing up people are goin’ to think you’re a weirdo or somethin.”

Chandler shuffled into the seat next to the man, still holding onto the bag.

“Uh, Thanks.” He nodded at the man, not making eye contact, but shooting him a quick glance, to get a look at the man. He was a lot stockier than Chandler, more muscle than anything. His hair had been neatly cut in military fashion, dark in coloring. He was obviously from the city, his accent was thicker than Chandlers. He had dopey looking eyes and smile, which made him seem sort of friendly.

“Tribbiani, Joey.” The man said, automatically reaching out to grasp Chandlers hand. He gave it a firm shake. Chandler let it fall loosely on his lap afterwards.

“Chandler, Bing.”

“Your first name’s Bing?” Joey asked, obviously confused.

“No, its Chandler.” He quickly corrected, wanting to avoid another debacle with his name.

“Might as well be Bing, they only call you by the last name, y’know.”

“Great, now I’ll only be picked on for ‘Bing’.” Chandler snorted, unable to hide the sarcasm. The drill sergeant at the front of the bus now began to run through names, trying to shout over the engine of the bus.

“Yeah, Chandler is just a little girlish, is your middle name any better?”

“W--W- Well, What kinda name is Tribbiani anyway?” Chandler grumbled, trying to direct their conversation as far from his middle name as they could.

“It’s Italian,” Joey said with a small hand flourish.

“Better than Bing.”

“I guess. It’s not that bad though, kinda snappy sounding y’know? I bet there’s tons of Tribbianis in the army, and not another Bing.”

“Sure.”

Joey shrugged, and turned to look out the window of the bus as it pulled away from the corner.

“Move it for a sec,” Chandler said, trying to elbow his way past Joey to get a look out of the window. He saw a glimpse of Monica on the corner, leaning her head against Rachel’s chest.

“You gotta girl out there?” Joey craned his head, trying to get a look.

“Yeah.” Chandler said as he slumped back in to his seat.

“Really?” Joey said, giving Chandler a once over.

“Yeah, now shut it.”

“All I got is lousy sisters.”

Chandler was barley listening as he shoved his bag under the seat in front of him. Joey rattled off the names of his sisters without hesitation.

“What?” Chandler said as he sat up straight again.

“I said there's, Mary Therese, Gina, Tina--” He began to count on his fingers.

Chandler cut him off. “Wait, how many?”

Joey finished counting on his fingers quickly.

“Seven.” He held up his hands.

“Jeez. Your old man must be proud.” He scoffed.

“Yeah, they’re good girls.” Joey couldn’t hide the pride in his voice.

“Well, tell me about them some other time.”

“What about your girl?”

“Well, she’s not my sister.” Chandler crossed his arms, finding it hard to be annoyed by Joey’s friendly demeanor. “Her name’s Monica.”

“Monica.” Joey echoed. “She good looking?”

Chandler shrugged and stuck out his bottom lip, he had never got to brag about the girl he was dating before.  “Sure, here.”

He took a moment to reach for the photo in his back pocket, and handed it over to Joey, who studied the photo intensely.

“Wow,” Joey looked towards Chandler. “A guy like you with a girl like that.” He let out a whistle.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Chandler said as he took the photo back.

“Yeah well, If I come home and you don’t, dibs.”

Chandler tried not to look offended, but if he was being honest with himself, Joey seemed harmless.

“Deal.”

Joey spit on his hand and held it out for Chandler to shake. He followed likewise, took the other man's hand and shook it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof I know the word 'dibs' didn't exist in the 40s but I couldn't resist.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments I’m getting, i read each one and appreciate them so much. They inspire me to put out new chapters more frequently, so thank you again!
> 
> Chapter Four will be posted by the end of January.


End file.
